On a Knife's Edge by Lynda Bailey Page A

you actually defending that fucker? After what he did
to me?”
    “So this is your answer? Petty revenge?”
    “It’s not petty.”
    “Then you admit you went looking for payback. Do you have
any idea how stupid this is?”
    “I did it to send a message.”
    “Really?” She cocked a hip. “What message? That you’re an
idiot?”
    He glowered. “That he’d better not mess with me or my
family.” Dell sliced his gaze to the man behind the glass. “Because if he does,
this will only be the beginning of the shit storm I’ll cause him.”
    She blew out a harsh sigh. “You need to get him his clothes
and release him.”
     “No.”
    Shasta’s mouth dropped open. She stared at her brother, but
it was like looking at a stranger. She knew Dell was bitter about the past, but
the extent of his vitriol staggered her. To abuse his office and authority this
way was not how her brother would act. She whipped out her cell. “I’ll
call the local newspaper and TV stations.”
    “And tell them what?” he goaded.
    She narrowed her eyes. “That the sheriff of Grant County is
trampling on someone’s civil rights.”
    Dell’s expression melted into anger. He grabbed for her
phone then wobbled, caught off balance because of his cane. She easily evaded
his grasp.
    “No one will believe a convicted criminal over a sheriff,”
her brother stated.
    “Not even with the support of that sheriff’s sister?”
    His stare turned icy. “You wouldn’t…”
    “I would—and will—unless you release him. Now .”
    “You’d side…with him?” He jabbed his finger at the glass.
“Instead of your own brother?”
    “If my brother’s acting like a total douche, yes. If he’s
thrown all his ethics and morals of the sheriff’s position— a position our
father held —into a dung heap, yes.” She knew it was a low blow to bring up
their dad, but she didn’t care. She shook her head with a sigh. “Christ,
Dell…you could lose your job. Think about the repercussions to your career. To
Dad’s legacy. You need to let him go.”
    Dell adjusted his stance. “And if I refuse?”
    She waved her phone in the air. “Then I’ll call the press.
Either release Lynch or be prepared to be on the six o’clock news. Your
choice.”
    A wound look flitted over her brother’s face, then he
glared. “I don’t believe you’d do that.”
    “Believe it.”
    He flattened his lips and pivoted to the door.
    “And Dell…”
    “What?” he ground out not bothering to look at her.
    “Get the heat back on.”
    Spine straight, he limped out, closing the door harder than
necessary. Once alone, Shasta focused her attention on Lynch. She stepped
forward and lightly touched her fingertips to the mirrored glass.
    Tears burned her eyes. He looked thinner. Thinner, yet
bigger. More rawboned. Sinewy.
    Powerful.
    The chairs had been removed from the room and he stood
behind the bolted-down table, head high and wrists handcuffed. He cupped his
genitals with both hands and glared at the mirror. Apparently he hadn’t lost
any volume down there .
    He could’ve turned his back to garner a small measure of
privacy, but that wasn’t Lynch’s way. To hell with the world, that was his
motto.
    His shaggy ash blond hair had lost the sun-streaked
highlights she remembered from so long ago. And the scraggly beard covering his
cleft chin looked darker than his hair. His collarbone jutted across his upper
chest like some kind of weird, tribal piercing while his broad shoulders seemed
broader or maybe it was because his waist appeared more narrow.
    He carried the same tattoos…his mom’s name, in a large
cursive font embellished the front of his neck and a black Celtic cross—with a
green shamrock in the middle—decorated his left shoulder. Another Celtic symbol
adorned his left upper chest area while the Streeter tat…a snake slithering
through the eyes of a skull…dominated his right shoulder with the words Learn
Through Pain scrawled on that same forearm.